Escape is Never the Safest Path
by mamapranayama
Summary: Faking his death just might kill Neal for real. AU to series finale.
1. Chapter 1

Hello. _So, the premise here is an AU to the finale and a different way things could have played out if Neal had been shot for real. This was written purely for my own pleasure and since I'm a sucker for Neal whump and angst, there is plenty in here._

 _It's in three parts and complete, but I'm editing as I go, so I'll post a chapter every day or two. Hope you like. :)_

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 **Part One: Escape is Never the Safest Path**

Neal had it all figured out.

Everything had been carefully scripted, the actors chosen, and the stage directions assigned. Up until that moment, everything had gone off without a hitch, but Keller just had to go and mess everything up, pulling a gun from his waistband and aiming at Mozzie, demanding the money.

Neal had expected that Keller might come armed, but knives were more his forte and he hadn't expected his weapon of choice to be a firearm. It was a mistake Neal could only hope wouldn't prove fatal for either him or Mozzie.

This however, didn't stop Neal from sticking to his plan and going after the gun he had stashed away as well. He wasn't about to let his friend get hurt and he might as well try to steer the ship back on course as best as he could. He might still be able to salvage it.

This soon led to a stand-off with Keller's gun trained on Moz and Neal with his leveled at Keller.

Mozzie stood at a loss and Neal knew he had taken him by surprise. It wasn't exactly his style to go around pulling guns.

"Let Mozzie go." Neal commanded, his face set with determination, giving away nothing but anger.

Neal was never one for violence, and he especially detested guns, but this gun was supposed to be his ticket out - he had just taken out a big chunk of the Pink Panthers organization and this was the only way he could see to save his friends from becoming targets of their vindictiveness. He had one bullet in said gun and it was a blank, but he wasn't about to tell Keller that.

He just needed to get Keller to let Mozzie go and then he could put things back into the right again.

"Sure, why not?" Keller sneered, his eyes cutting towards Neal, "I always liked the little guy. He never did me any harm… unlike you. So, drop the money next to me and take off, Moz. Neal and I have things to discuss." Keller motioned with his free hand for Mozzie to move quickly.

Mozzie hesitated, looking at Neal with a worried expression. Neal gave his friend a brief nod that he hoped conveyed to his friend the need to trust him with this.

The shorter man shook his head and rolled his eyes a little, showing his trust Neal and also his exasperation at his recklessness, but he did as he was told dropped the bag full of money at Keller's feet before he left the basement.

Neal kept his gun aimed at Keller while the other man lowered his, a laugh bubbling from his lips.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that, Caffrey? Look at you … you and a gun. It's priceless." Keller snorted and chuckled, "I betcha it's not even loaded … I mean, C'mon, Neal … we both know you don't have the balls to shoot me. It's not who you are."

Neal allowed Keller to go into a soliloquy about how all of Neal's friends were in danger because of him and how he ruined everything he touched, but when he mentioned Kate and how she was dead the moment she met Neal, the almost crazed look in Neal's eyes and the fidgeting of his trigger finger were all too real. Keller was as cool as could be, calmly antagonizing Neal, his own gun loose in his hand, but Neal knew he almost had him now. Any moment Neal felt that Keller would make his move - he just hoped it would be the one he predicted.

Keller was a man that took risks, but he could also be pragmatic when the odds were stacked against him and he only had two questions before him; was Neal's gun loaded or not? Neal could see that Keller's continued monologuing was mostly for his own benefit as he tried to decide whether or not Neal was bluffing.

If Keller decided that Neal's gun was indeed loaded, his expected move was to try and take Neal's gun away just so he could rub Neal's perceived weakness in his face. Neal just had to convince him with his body language that he was sincere in his desire to kill Keller. When Keller attacked, he'd allow him to get the upper hand and in the scuffle, Neal would fire the blank and then he'd pop the bag of blood strapped to his chest and fall to the ground, feigning a gunshot wound that would convince Keller that he'd delivered a mortal blow.

He just had to convince Keller his gun was loaded and he was willing to use it. He played up the very real anger inside of him, letting it spill over.

"What makes you so sure I won't kill you where you stand for all the crap you've pulled?" Neal asked, letting his voice waver intentionally, but he straightened arm, holding the gun firm and steady, making his intentions clear.

"Because you're not a killer, Neal," Keller said matter of factly, "I am."

His face expressionless, Keller whipped his gun up faster than Neal could anticipate and fired without warning or preamble. Neal fired his gun reflexively, but being loaded with a blank, it made only a loud, useless noise.

Neal felt as though he had been socked in the gut by a Mack truck.

He stumbled backward and looked down, confused. It wasn't supposed to go like this. There wasn't supposed to be a bright red patch of blood growing from the center of the hole in his shirt, just above his belt buckle. It was supposed to be much higher up where the still intact bag of fake blood was.

It wasn't supposed to be real.

But it was real.

Neal's universe stood still as his mind struggled to realize what had just happened. The shock of it all, the swiftness of it, it was too much for him to take in.

Even Keller looked a bit shocked at what he had done, pulling back with the gun still in his hand.

Knees giving in, Neal dropped to the floor gracelessly, landing flat on his back, the gun in his hand clattering across the cement floor.

And then the pain hit, white hot and searing. He knew it was coming, and like a tsunami after an earthquake, it was impossible to stop. Neal had never experienced anything of its like before and all at once it enveloped him, exquisite and excruciating. His skin burned hot as molten steel where the shot had entered while a bone-chilling frost settled over the rest of his body, making him shiver and shake uncontrollably.

Blood rushed through his ears, loud as a freight train. Vaguely he was aware of Keller looming over him as his hands sought the source of his pain and ineffectively grasped at the hole in his belly, blood seeping from between his fingers, as if they might somehow push all of the agony and blood back into his body.

Keller looked down on him with something that might have resembled pity if Neal didn't already know that the man was incapable of such emotion.

"Looks like this really is the end for us, huh?"

Despite the overwhelming pain, Neal suddenly felt a laugh bubble up and he let it loose, which he immediately wished he hadn't as the fire in his stomach rocketed up and left him breathless. The absurdity of it all wasn't lost on him. How ironic was it that his plans to fake his death were actually going to kill him?

Peter at least, had to have picked up the anklet's signal by now, so at least Keller wouldn't get far.

"What's so funny?" Keller asked.

Neal looked at his foot and he felt his tracking anklet scrape across the cement as turned his foot. Keller followed his eyes and winced,seeing the red light blinking and realizing that he had been set up.

"Son of a bitch."

"Good thing you're so damned predictable." Neal smiled then grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut as the pain and nausea reminded him that Keller wasn't as predictable as he should have been.

Keller didn't bother with any more smug retorts, stashing his gun in his waistband and then grabbing the bag of cash along with Neal's gun before running for the exit.

0o0o0o0o0

Peter ran across Wall Street, the tracker in his hand showing him that he was getting close. He was only about a block or two away from the address on the screen when he heard the shot.

He stopped in his tracks, suddenly chilled to the marrow in his bones. The shot came from the direction of the tracker's signal.

Peter had already started running by the time Keller came tearing out into the street, a black tote bag strapped across his chest.

"Keller, stop!" He shouted, reaching for his gun.

Keller looked behind him and locked eyes with Peter for a split second before making the decision to keep running, darting through the crowds of pedestrians and shoving anyone who got in his way.

Peter called in his location for back up with the rest of the team as he chased the criminal across the pavement and through busy sidewalks. Keller's heavy bag was slowing him down though and Peter was able to catch up quickly. The man must have sensed Peter was about to grab him for in the next second he pulled out a gun and grabbed a young woman in business attire who had the misfortune of being only a foot away from him.

Keller pressed the gun to the terrified woman's temple. Tears coursed down the woman's cheeks, but she didn't cry out, even as Peter was forced to raise his gun and aim directly at the man holding her hostage. He forced himself to keep his eyes trained on Keller and not on her pleading eyes.

"Let her go, Keller!"

"I'm tired of taking orders from you!" Keller dug the barrel of the gun deeper into the woman's hair and she whimpered. "Do as I say and she lives. We all live. Except for Caffrey ... "

Peter blanched and Keller grinned smugly seeing his reaction.

Keller continued to goad, "It's already too late for him, but if you let me go you might have time to say goodbye."

Peter's hands held his gun steady even as his stomach dropped to the ground. Surely Keller was bluffing. Neal couldn't be that bad off.

The backup Peter had called in was rushing in behind Keller and the bastard was speaking again, but Peter had tuned him out, he refused to listen to another word of the vitriol that flowed from that mouth. Instead his focus was rooted squarely on the spot located between Keller's eyes as he waited for the other man to make his move.

Because he knew without a doubt that Keller was not going to make it out of this alive.

And in the blink of an eye, it was over. Keller had turned the gun on Peter in a final Hail Mary and Peter had not hesitated to pull the trigger.

Keller was dead before he hit the ground.

The hostage was scooped up by a swarm of agents and a controlled chaos erupted over the scene.

But Peter wasn't there to supervise it, he was already running.

0o0o0o0o0

Neal tried to call Peter. Things had veered so far off the page that he wanted to set things right, to at least say goodbye to Peter before … well, before he bled to death on a dirty floor with fake blood strapped to his chest , a spent bullet and blowfish poison pills in his pocket.

Peter was an excellent FBI special agent and he'd put the clues together. He'd find Neal's body and deduce that Neal had tried to fake his death, which was true. But, he'd probably also think that Neal did it just to run away and get out from under the thumb of the government and since Peter is also excellent at jumping to conclusions, he'd probably think that Neal was doing this to run from the FBI, which he was not.

He wanted to tell him that he had good reasons for doing it, that he just wanted the people he loved to be safe. That he wanted Peter's kid to grow up with a dad.

He wanted to tell the man who had taken a chance on him and took him on as his CI that despite their trust issues, Peter was the man who gave Neal a reason to want to be a better man.

Shit … wasn't that a line from some movie?

Anyway, he would have called and said all of that if his damn phone wasn't dead.

Neal let his hand with the phone in it to drop to the floor. It was too heavy to hold and he was so cold and tired and everything hurt. He probably wasn't supposed to sleep, but it was getting harder and harder to stay awake even with the pain of his wound trying to tear him in half.

Neal shivered and groaned as he curled into a ball, his arms wrapping around his middle, hoping that the new position would help with the pain.

It didn't. It apparently wasn't going anywhere and neither was Neal. There was no way he was walking out of there.

This was it. This was the filthy floor he was going to die on.

He couldn't get his thoughts straight and it felt as though a fog had settled inside his brain. He already called an ambulance, didn't he? He thought maybe he had since the phone was in his hand.

No. He remembered now.

Phone was dead.

He talked to Linda the paramedic a few days ago. She and her partner were on board with his plan. He paid them half yesterday and the rest would be sent to them after he successfully 'died'.

They were supposed to bring the gurney down to the cellar and bring him to the ambulance before the blowfish toxin set in so it would be more believable that he had died enroute to the hospital. They should get to him soon, shouldn't they?

Maybe he wouldn't die afterall.

Well ... as long as he hadn't lost too much blood.

And the paramedics he hired were better at first aid than they were at professional integrity.

Then again, if he died it would certainly be a lot easier than trying to pull this sort of thing off again and his problems with the Pink Panthers coming after his friends would be solved. Mozzie would be safe, June would be safe, and El ... and Peter wouldn't have to worry about having his back anymore, he wouldn't have to constantly pull Neal from the fire and risk career or his life for him anymore. Maybe this was the only way he wouldn't be able to hurt or cause anyone any pain anymore.

Maybe it would be better just to let go ...

Neal drifted. The pain came and went and then came again suddenly when he felt a hand touch his wrist and he jolted awake, turning the heat up in his wound and causing him to cry out.

"It's okay, Mr. Caffrey. It's me, Linda." A woman soothed, patting his shoulder. "It looks like things didn't quite work out as planned, did they?

Linda?

The name sounded familiar.

"Did you take the tetrodotoxin already?"

Tetro-what?

He blinked up at her, her face slipping in and out of focus, sometimes doubling. She was cutting his shirt off, revealing the bag of blood. She cut that off as well.

"Did you take the blowfish poison?" She asked again.

Oh ...

They were here to save him. Didn't he already decide against that?

He shook his head and closed his eyes.

A knuckle ground into his sternum and his eyes flew open at the pain. He glared at the woman.

"Try to keep those pretty eyes open for me, okay?"

He felt a pressure on his arm followed by a ripping sound and another woman's voice. "He's really hypotensive, Linda. We gotta get him to the rig."

"I know. Just let me make sure that all the, ya know, incriminating stuff is stashed away. The last thing we need is someone finding out we were gonna help this guy fake his death."

"I get it, but he's fading."

Linda grabbed a plastic bag and stuffed the sack of blood, the bullet and tiny container that held the poison he was supposed to take and shoved the whole thing into her carry-all.

"Don't worry, Mr. Caffrey. I'll toss all of this into the incinerator at the hospital, okay? I'm afraid you'll just have to reschedule your appointment with death for another day."

Neal nodded weakly, not really caring about much of anything except for the chance to doze off and escape the gnawing pain of the fire raging in his belly.

The next thing he was aware of was sunlight.

It was too bright as the women pushed the gurney from the dim recesses of the building's basement and out into the open city street.

Neal winced and moaned, trying to shield his eyes, but a hand held his arm down. The gurney came to a stop and Neal's eyes had adjusted enough to open fully.

He gazed up, into a worried face.

0o0o0o0o

Peter was just in time to see the paramedics come out of the building.

For one heart stopping second, Peter believed that he was too late. Neal lay on the gurney, his shirt cut off with fresh blood soaking through several layers of pressure bandages. His face was ashen and sweaty and his eyes were closed, but when the paramedics pushed the gurney into the sunlight, Neal suddenly winced and groaned.

Peter was already by Neal's side, reaching for the hand that was raising. The woman pushing the gurney gave Peter a warning look to keep out of the way as they worked, but didn't send him away. As the bed stopped at the ambulance doors, Neal's eyes opened and peered up at Peter.

"Jesus, Neal." Peter whispered.

Neal made an attempt to grin.

"You're the only one that saw the good in me."

"Don't say that." Peter took on a panicky look. "Stop it."

Neal's eyes drooped, heavy with pain and fatigue. Peter knew he was slipping away. He wanted to reach out and shake the man just to get him to keep his eyes open a little longer because he was afraid the next time he closed them, they might not open again.

And then Neal said, "You're my best friend."

Peter felt his world tumble and overcome with numbness, he was frozen to the spot as the paramedics pulled the gurney into the ambulance.

Neal was saying goodbye.

And then Peter saw Neal close his eyes before disappearing behind the ambulance door.

0o0o0o0o0o0

Neal opened his eyes and looked out over the city skyline from his balcony perch, it's buildings soaring up into the clouds, the tops of which disappeared into the fog that had rolled in from the Atlantic.

He always enjoyed this view, even on gloomier days like this when it looked as though rain was on its way in. Of course, he loved the architecture of the buildings and the beauty in their designs, but there was more to it than that. There was something about New York that was more than just pretty buildings and as he looked down on the silent streets below, he knew what it was exactly that drew him in; the people.

He could sit on any park bench in the city and people watch for hours without getting bored. Where else in the world could a man who grew up in St. Louis watch a man from Pakistan join a Chinese man in a friendly game of chess while a few paces down, two men held each other's hands and eyes in a loving embrace without fear or rebuke. New York was a city of people from all walks of life looking for something new and exciting, whether it was money, love, or fame ... people came here to fulfill their dreams. It was why Neal was always drawn back to this town time and time again. It was where is dreams were too.

And that was what struck him first as he looked below.

There was no one there.

He couldn't remember coming out onto the balcony or how long he had been there or even what he was doing before hand, but one thing was certain, he was alone.

He looked over the edge again. There was still no sign of any cars or pedestrians nor were there any horns honking or sirens blaring or any of the sounds one would expect on any given day in New York.

It was completely silent.

He turned from the balcony and went back into the loft. He then exited his apartment and wandered through the rest of the mansion, looking for June. Maybe she would know what was going on.

Searching the whole house, he called for his landlady, but the place was empty save for him. Even the maid and cook were absent as he strolled through the parlor and kitchen areas where he could almost always find them this time of day. Then again, June could have gone out for the day and had sent the staff home early. She did that every now and again, so it was still too early to be concerned.

Yet still, he had an odd feeling creeping in and he didn't like it at all.

Neal left the house and walked down the street, the sensation of dread growing stronger with every step. The fog that had covered the tops of the building's before had descended to the ground, casting a whitened pall over the neighborhood.

Normally, even in such dreary weather, there were people strolling up and down the street, some hand in hand with lovers, some alone and minding their own business, some with dogs, some with strollers and kids, but always, always there were people.

But not today.

Not one car drove down the perpetually crowded street and not one person could be seen. The only noise Neal could hear was the sound of his own ragged and quickening breaths.

Neal swallowed hard.

What the hell was going on?

Was there some kind of evacuation going on that he was the last to know about?

As he walked, he pulled out his phone and dialed Peter's number. Peter always had an answer for everything, right or wrong and he would know what was happening. He'd probably yell at Neal for being where he shouldn't be and he'd grumble, but he would come and pick Neal up and get him out of there.

Everything would be okay, he assured himself warily.

Neal listened to the line ring and ring for several long minutes, but there was no answer. Strangely, Peter's stern voicemail greeting telling him to leave a message was also absent.

He then dialed Mozzie, hoping he was still in the city.

There was no answer, which wasn't unusual for his paranoid friend.

He dialed Mozzie's ten other numbers.

Same result.

He felt like throwing his phone in frustration, but called Diana's number instead.

Nothing.

He called Jones, then Sara, even Alex.

No one answered.

In desperation, he called 911.

It never went through.

The uneasy feeling was starting to feel a little more like panic now and he walked faster, hoping that he'd find someone, anyone, who knew why the place was so deserted.

Around the corner was a Starbucks that Neal frequented. It was always busy and many times he bemoaned the line that sometimes stretched to the door, but as he entered the coffee shop, he found that it too was empty.

He was soon running. His only thought was to get to the FBI building. It was nearly a half mile away, and usually a pleasant walk on those days when Peter wasn't able to give him a ride into work, but the lack of cars and noise and people just heightened his anxiety all the more and he was nearly sprinting by the time he made it to the entrance.

The building too had been cleared. No guards were posted at the entrance and no one was there to check his badge even though the doors were unlocked. He skipped the elevator in favor of running up the stairs, too impatient and anxious to find Peter and get some answers.

But like everywhere else, the offices of the White Collar unit were empty. He walked past his own desk and noticed something odd. His bust of Socrates was missing. He moved closer and opened the top drawer and found that it too was empty. Even the little lock pick set he had hidden under the drawer that was certain no one would ever find was gone. It was as if he had never even used it over the last four years.

Curious, Neal looked around and noticed that all of the desks were cleared. Not one had a single picture on them or anything personal on them. He ran up the steps to Peter's office and his desk too, which was always cluttered with paperwork, was spotless. His photos of El and Satchmo were gone. Even the permanent coffee cup rings Peter had seemingly etched on its surface were gone.

Neal ran from the room, feeling like he'd walked into a terrible episode of the 'Twilight Zone'.

Maybe he could find something about it on the TV.

He tried the set in the conference room, but he got only static.

He tried the computers too, but nothing would turn on.

If Neal hadn't been freaked out before, he was now.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to talk himself out of panicking.

He forced deep breaths in and out and soon, his racing heart began to calm to a manageable level. He just needed to think.

His thoughts however, only led him to one conclusion.

He was alone … in all of New York City.

.

 _Part II coming soon_


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you so much to those of you who have reviewed, favorited or followed. I really appreciate the feedback. I hope this next part doesn't disappoint.

.

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 **Part II: Is There Anybody Out There?**

Too late.

Peter crushed his hands together between his lap, leaning into his elbows as he bowed forward as if curling in on himself could ease the cold feeling of dread in his stomach.

He had been too late.

Shit … two minutes sooner and he could have stopped Keller from ever shooting Neal in the first place.

If only he had run a little faster, been a little sharper. Hell, if only he had paid a little more attention, Neal and Keller wouldn't have taken off together in the first place and he'd be at home with his wife, having a nice quiet dinner after a stressful day with her instead.

But no … Neal just had to take off … had to put himself in such a dangerous situation. What had he been thinking? That he would just con Keller into giving himself up? Or, did he think he was some kind of goddamned superhero and that somehow he could simply charm bullets into going in the other direction with a cocky smile?

Anger surfaced.

It was a cycle he was bound to repeat. He had been vacillating through emotions ever since he watched the ambulance drive away. He was angry one moment, then scared, then depressed, then hopeless, and then he was right back at being angry again.

Peter dropped his head between his knees and stared at the tiled floor without really seeing it. All he could see were Neal's eyes closing and the blood ... there was so much of it.

It was hopelessness' turn to take over.

A hand touched his back unexpectedly and Peter jerked up to see Jones standing next to him.

"How's Neal?"

Peter shook his head and rubbed his face, "I don't know," he replied hoarsely. All he knew was that Neal was still alive when they arrived at the hospital and after that he'd been pushed over to the waiting area and he'd been sitting there ever since for what felt like days, without any word yet.

Jones took a seat and sighed. "Forensics is working on the evidence from the scenes, but so far they know that Keller had two handguns on him. One, a Colt .38 special revolver, unloaded, but recently fired and the other, a Remington 9 mil with three rounds still in the mag. There was gun powder residue on Keller's hand so there's little doubt that he was the one to shoot Neal. Also, the girl he took as hostage was treated at the scene and released. She's pretty shaken up, but she'll be fine thanks to you. If you ask me, Keller got what was coming to him."

Peter gritted his teeth. Anger was back again with a vengeance. He could honestly say that there had never been anyone in the world that Peter had ever hated more than Matthew Keller. He just wished he could kill him all over again.

Jones stuck around for about an hour after that, but left when Peter insisted he go home for the night and rest, promising to keep him updated. Diana called and briefed him on the disposition of the men they arrested that afternoon, explaining that they were all in lock up and awaiting arraignment. He couldn't believe that it had been only a few hours since the take-down. It felt like it had happened years ago. She told him she was on her way to the hospital, but he told her the same thing he told Jones ... to go home and get some rest. It had been a hell of a day.

He called El shortly after speaking with Diana and told her everything. He had wanted at first to just tell her not to wait up for him, but as soon as he heard her voice, his own cracked and he spilled. She gave a little gasp hearing the news and he could hear her tears over the phone. He wished he could reach through the phone and hold her, not only for her comfort, but for his own as well. Reluctantly, she agreed to stay home. He knew she was still feeling morning sickness even though she hid it well and he didn't want her up all night worrying with him in a noisy hospital when she needed her rest.

It was nearing 2 a.m. before Peter was finally briefed on Neal's condition. His weary-looking doctor explained things simply. Neal was alive, but in a coma and it would be a waiting game to see if he would pull through.

It took the medical team hours just to stabilize Neal before they could get him into surgery. The 9 mm bullet had done a lot of damage and he had lost almost too much for his body to cope even with multiple transfusions. His internal organs, especially his kidneys had been in danger of failing and his brain was susceptible to damage due to lack of oxygen being carried to it through the blood, especially since Neal's heart had failed twice in the ER, requiring the use of the defibrillator.

Needless to say, Peter felt a little faint hearing that.

Through various medications that Peter would be hard pressed to pronounce, they were finally able to boost Neal's heart pumping strength so that his blood pressure was high enough for him to survive surgery. The bullet however, had done a lot of damage to Neal's GI tract, causing extreme internal hemorrhaging and the only quick and dirty way to save Neal had been to remove several feet of intestine along with the 9 mm slug that was a hair's breadth away from hitting his spine. He would need a colostomy for a while, but Neal survived surgery and that was the first hurtle for now, the doctor told him, trying to sound like something positive could be found in all of this.

The next thing they would have to contend would be infection. Neal's intestines had been ruptured, spilling their contents into his abdomen and even though the doctors had flushed the area during surgery as best as they could, the time that had elapsed before Neal was stable enough for surgery meant that bacteria were no doubt still alive and kicking in there. They would strike back with heavy duty antibiotics, but it was again, a waiting game to watch and see what would happen.

So that was what Peter was left with as the doctor walked away.

Neal was alive.

But he was skating on a knife's edge.

0o0o0o0o

Neal must have wandered the streets for hours searching for any signs of life, but there was no one.

The fog was getting thicker too and soon all he could see was white beyond anything five or six feet away. He wasn't completely sure where he was going, but before long, he found that he had walked all the way to Central Park, which was well beyond his two mile radius. He hadn't noticed before, but when he lifted his leg, there was no tracker affixed to his ankle.

He chuckled weakly.

That was probably the only that brought him any kind of ironic amusement in all of this. He was finally free to go anywhere he wanted, but where could he go? Without people it wasn't like he could hop on a flight to Paris or the Bahamas. Who'd fly the damn plane?

Staring at his bare ankle, he found it kinda weird that he missed the stupid thing. He had had it on so long that it had almost become a part of him and without it's familiar, if somewhat cumbersome weight, he felt adrift and very, very alone. He always thought that he would feel lighter once he had the thing off - that without it shackling him to some distant monitoring station, that he'd somehow just magically float off into the sunset, and just take off to parts unknown. He never realized until that moment how much of a comfort it had been to know that someone was always keeping tabs on him.

That in itself was a little bit of a creepy thought and if Mozzie had heard it, he would have made some kind of comment about Big Brother brainwashing him, but right then, he'd rather be tackled by 20 armed Marshals for being outside of his radius than be stuck alone in this … limbo.

That last thought made Neal pause and he could feel the blood rushing from his face.

 _Limbo._

What if this _was_ limbo ... as in Dante's first circle of Hell limbo.

No ... Limbo was for non-believers without sin, like Dante's Virgil. Neal clearly didn't fit into that category. He'd sinned plenty.

That could only mean that he was in some other circle of hell ... more like purgatory.

Neal wasn't a very religious man, and he didn't necessarily believe in God, and he certainly didn't believe that Dante's version of Hell was anything other than a phenomenal piece of fiction, but Neal didn't know what else to call this place.

It made a kind of sense, but there was one nagging question.

If this was the afterlife, then was he dead, wasn't he?

Neal stopped at a park bench to sit down and gather his thoughts. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what he was doing before all the people disappeared and was frustrated when he found he could only get a vague feeling of unease about it without any context.

He struggled to recall and was rewarded with a flash of memory. He saw in his mind's eye, Matthew Keller's face, his hand holding a gun and the echoing report of gunfire followed by pain ... god awful pain.

Remembering it all, he gasped aloud as it all came back to him in a flood of images. How could he forget he'd been shot?

There had been so much pain and now … there wasn't any.

 _Shit …_

He really was dead.

0o0o0o0o0

Peter's head jerked up for the fifth time in ten minutes. He was fighting a losing battle with sleep and logically, he knew he wasn't doing any good trying to stay awake when the man in the coma next to him was oblivious to his presence. But he just couldn't set aside his worry that if he fell asleep, Neal might slip away before he could do something about it. Not that he could do anything, he was no doctor and even the doctors had admitted that there was little more they could do but wait and hope. Yet still, Peter didn't want to sleep, even if his body had other ideas.

He really wasn't supposed to be in the ICU, but Peter had pulled his badge, stating that Neal was under the FBI protection and would need an agent with him at all times. In reality, Peter was still worried about the Panthers. They had taken a big chunk out of their organization and they might not be too happy about that and Peter was not about to let them get to Neal when he was so vulnerable. He would order a full detail in the morning, but in the meantime, he would keep Neal safe.

The night passed slowly and Neal remained deeply held within his coma, but he was holding his own by morning and the doctors were cautiously optimistic about his chances. Eventually, Peter finally had to give in to the demands of his body, but mostly wife, who pressed him to go home and get some sleep. Jones had stopped by and offered to keep an eye Neal until a protection detail for Neal could be set up. Peter ended up sleeping for 6 hours straight and when he awoke, he called Jones for a report, learning that Neal's condition had not changed … neither for the better nor for the worse.

After that, Peter had to at least make an appearance at work and finish his final report on his showdown with Keller. He knew he was facing another OPR review for discharging his firearm and killing a suspect, but to be honest, he really had no qualms about that. He'd endure 20 OPR investigations if it meant he could kill Keller all over again for what he did to Neal, but either way, he wasn't losing any sleep over his death.

He spent about two hours typing his report and submitting it up the chain of command. He looked over the latest reports drawn up by forensics at the scenes of both Keller's death and where Neal was shot. A curious note was made that a single blank brass was found in that basement that matched the caliber of the .38 special found on Keller, but he never got to finish reading the results of the ballistics tests and it was soon put out of his mind when his phone rang and he was called into the director's office and ordered to turn in his service weapon. He was looking at a week at least of administrative leave for the OPR review, which normally would have upset him, but he was relieved instead. He could use the time off to spend with Neal … just in case.

He arrived back at the hospital a few minutes before noon to find Diana pulling protection detail duty outside Neal's door. She nodded to her boss as she opened the door for him, "Neal's already got a visitor, but I guess I can let you in too."

Peter walked into the room, seeing the man to which Diana was referring.

"Mozzie?" Peter had to admit he was a little surprised to see the notoriously paranoid man within the walls of the hospital, but underneath it all, he knew that Neal's small friend would do just about anything for him, even brave a giant building filled with germs and disease to see him.

"Suit," he was greeted curtly.

"How is he?" Peter asked the shorter, balder man as he walked over to the bed and took in Neal's appearance. He was still still hooked up to nine kinds tubes and machines and he was still frighteningly motionless and silent. Nothing seemed to have changed since his last visit except his deathly pale face seemed a little unnaturally flushed.

"He's been better and he's picked up a bit of a fever." Mozzie replied bitterly, his eyes never leaving Neal.

"You talked to the doctor?" Peter asked, a little surprised that the conspiracy theorist would speak to someone in a profession he often referred to as the 'medical industrial complex'.

Mozzie scoffed, "As if I'd let one of big pharma's minions try to tell me what what's best for Neal. I read his chart and came to my own conclusions, thank you."

"And what did you conclude that the people who have trained for years to become doctors did not?

Mozzie touched Neal's hand, "That I should never have left him alone with Keller."

Peter dragged a chair over from the opposite side of the room and sat next to Moz with a heavy sigh. There was quiet save for the low hum of the blood pressure cuff kicking on and at its preset time.

"I hear you killed Keller." Mozzie spoke, breaking the silence.

"Yeah, I did." Peter replied flatly. He hated giving any thought to the man he had killed.

Mozzie nodded, satisfied, "Good."

Peter opened his mouth to speak when Mozzie beat him to the punch, "I know what you're going to ask. What were Neal and Keller doing down under wall street that day, right?"

"If you know, Moz, you have to tell me. You can't keep this a secret for long. I'll figure it out eventually."

"I know you will. And I also know that you'll do whatever it takes to help Neal."

"Of course I will. You know that."

"And if I tell you what I know, you'll keep it in the strictest confidence. It doesn't leave this room for Neal's sake. You have to promise me that it won't be used to tack on any more indentured servitude to Neal's deal with you G-men."

"I promise that this stays between us. But I need to know what happened after Neal and Keller left the holding van." Peter felt the control over his voice begin to slip as the questions he had been holding inside suddenly burst forth. "Why did Neal leave with him? He was almost there … another hour or two of paperwork and he would have walked away a free man. He had an iron-clad contract so, why did he do it? Tell me."

Mozzie lowered his voice and looked at the door to make sure it was closed so they couldn't be overheard.

"The answer is obvious, Suit. Keller was going to walk away from this too, but Neal wasn't about to let that happen. He was too dangerous to let go. The details of our operation aren't really important, but you could just say that we hatched a little plan that allowed Keller to think he was in on a big score. We needed to catch him using his own greed against him and Neal was just supposed to stall Keller when he tried to take it all for himself, let him monologue long enough for you and the cavalry to arrive after he turned his tracker back on, but things went sideways. Keller pulled a gun. Which in hindsight, I should have seen coming even though Keller is much more of a knife kind of guy. Anyway ... that's when things really got weird."

"How?"

Mozzie swallowed, and very uncomfortably admitted, "Neal pulled a gun too."

Peter's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Neal had a gun?" Peter asked, feeling an unexpected flip in his stomach. Neal with a gun? No wonder Mozzie looked so stricken, he hadn't expected it either and Neal always, always shared his plans with Mozzie

"Now understand this, Suit. I know Neal better than anyone in this world, even you. Neal hated Keller, but he would never try to kill him. He would rather see him back in that Russian prison or Supermax. Shooting him would have been stooping to Keller's level and he'd never do anything so crass and inelegant. He wouldn't be able to live with himself."

Peter agreed with that. After that one time he pulled a gun on Fowler, Peter had seen how much regret the young man had had over the incident even though he hadn't even hurt the rogue agent Neal had been convinced killed Kate.

"And that's what has me so perplexed here." Mozzie continued, "Why did he bring a gun? He and I both know he could have easily talked circles around Keller long enough for you guys to show up. It was unnecessary … and Neal never … never does anything unnecessary during a job. He always has them planned out to the nth degree. And that has me thinking about something disturbing … something that if Neal really tried to pull and didn't tell me about … well, me just say that I'll be extremely disappointed if it's true. So let me ask you something, Suit. Was the gun Keller took from Neal loaded or not?"

"Keller had two guns on him. The one that shot Neal still had three bullets, but the other one was recently fired, but empty. Forensics found a .38 brass blank at the scene where Neal was found - same caliber as the second gun Keller had. Why?" Peter asked, wondering where Mozzie was going with this as the shorter man shook his head in dismay as if his fears had just been confirmed.

"Don't you get it?" Mozzie asked as if speaking to a dim-witted child, growing more animated as he explained his thoughts. "Only one brass let behind from a blank?Doesn't that sound fishy to you? Why would an extremely intelligent man, much less a genius like Neal, bring a gun with only one blank in it if he was truly going to use it against someone like Keller? The only answer I can see is that he had an altogether different plan in mind. Neal knew that that gun was only going to be fired once … Neal knew there was only going to be one victim in all of this - him."

Peter sat dumbfounded. Mozzie couldn't be implying what he thought he was implying.

Mozzie deflated visibly and looked at Neal sadly and took his friend's hand in his own, "He was going to fake his death, Suit." he spoke softly with a lumpy throat,"But clearly, it didn't go as planned."

The shorter man shook his head, not angrily, but hurt, "And he didn't even tell me. He tells me everything. I mean, I've been trying to get him to do this for years and he always shut me down. I tried to tell him that he made too many attachments here." Mozzie turned on Peter, shaking his finger at him accusingly, "I told him it was dangerous to stay in one place too long, but noooo … it always came back to you, Suit. It was always 'Peter needs this' or 'Peter needs that'. He could never leave thinking that you might need him. So there's only one reason I can think of for why he did this and that's for you."

"What? You think I wanted this?" Peter decried angrily, barely keeping his voice in check. Mozzie's idea that Neal was attempting to fake his death when he was shot made some scary sort of sense, but he didn't want to believe it. It made him angry all the same though. "If Neal did try to do this, what makes you think he did it for me?"

"Because," Mozzie replied, "he just cut the tail off the hydra, but the heads are still intact. The Panthers aren't just art thieves, you know. They're like the Yakuza and the Sicilian mob rolled into one, only more violently ruthless. And Neal knew, because I reiterated this point enough times, that even if the FBI held up its end of the deal and cut him loose after this operation of yours, there wasn't anywhere he could run where they wouldn't find him. But the Panthers are never satisfied with just snuffing a guy that pisses them off. No, they go after your friends, your family … hell, even your dog and houseplants aren't safe from these guys. Don't you see, Neal didn't want to run off … he had to. He was thinking that the only way to keep us all safe was to kill Neal Caffrey so thoroughly and completely that even his best friend would think he was dead."

Peter's heart and mind were racing. Mozzie's argument made maddening sense and if it was true, Neal was all set to make all of his friends think that he was dead. Sure, Mozzie believed that Neal acted selflessly, but Peter couldn't stop the swell of anger building inside of him. Even after all of these years it boiled down to trust between him and Neal and somewhere along the way Neal had lost faith in Peter. Had Neal felt so alone that he thought Peter wouldn't protect him anymore? If Neal had only come to him, they could have worked it out together somehow without the younger man taking such a deadly risk, but Neal hadn't trusted Peter to have his back anymore.

Suddenly the room seemed too small and Peter was rushing out, his chest heaving.

He needed air.

0o0o0o0o0

Neal sat in the park for what must have been hours contemplating his situation. Being agnostic at best, Neal had always assumed that when he died he would just cease to exist, but the fact that he was now dead and still around had to mean that this was his afterlife.

But what did that mean? Would he be stuck here for eternity or was there some higher power waiting around for him to repent and pledge allegiance to God before he would be allowed into heaven?

He had no answers and sitting all alone on a park bench forever wasn't going to give him any. He apparently had plenty of time to ponder these and many of the other mysteries of life, the universe, and everything, but he really didn't want to.

He really didn't like where all this thinking was going and there were far too many thoughts he didn't want to hear.

He needed a distraction. Usually a good distraction for Neal involved either crime, art, or women. Since there were no women and crime was a moot point when there was no one to care if he stole anything, he was left with art.

Neal thought of the first place that he had promised himself he would go when his anklet was removed and he resolved to make the most of its absensce.

He'd pay a visit to the Guggenheim.

Neal had been to the museum many times before of course, but it was one of his favorites, especially the Kandinsky gallery. That had all been before his arrest and years spent in prison though. The Guggenheim had been just outside his radius and while he had been to nearly all the major art museums in New York on cases, not one of them had been at the Guggenheim. He tried several times to convince Peter to allow him a little extension so he could visit it, but things had happened; U- Boats were blown up, treasure was taken, escapes to Cape Verde were made, long-lost fathers showed up and a dead Senator had turned everything upside down between Neal and Peter. There was a time once when Neal thought that Peter might have trusted him enough to allow such leeway, but not anymore.

But now, Neal had no anklet to hold him back, no Marshals monitoring him, and hell, he wouldn't even have to bother with waiting in line to pay admission. This was actually starting to sound like a great idea and for the first time since he woke up in this bizzaro New York, he let himself chuckle a little. He had the whole city all to himself. It could be fun.

The museum wasn't too far from the park and the walk was surprisingly quick as he wasn't hampered by cars when crossing the roads. And now that he thought about it, it wasn't just that cars weren't driving around, but there were no vehicles at all. They were not parked in the streets or in parking garages ... There wasn't a single one anywhere.

He guessed hot wiring a car and leaving the city wasn't going to happen either.

As the modern facade of the museum came into view, Neal picked up the pace. It was bad enough being inside a building with no people, but walking the silent, empty streets of New York, was freaking him out more than just a little. Adding to that eeriness, it was getting colder by the minute and the fog was refusing to recede. It was as if it was enshrouding the city just to hide the rest of it from Neal because it wasn't bad enough that all of the people had disappeared, but it had to take everything else too.

Reaching the front entrance, Neal easily pulled the door open. It hadn't been locked, but then again, what was the point if he was the only one around?

He knew immediately that something was wrong the moment he walked through the door.

The vast rotunda with its spiraling floors leading visitors skyward was a bright and beautifully stark as Neal remembered, but it was shockingly bare. Sure, the Guggenheim was known for embracing minimalism, but this was more than just an artistic expression.

There were no sculptures anywhere, no installation pieces and worst of all, as Neal ran from gallery to gallery, there were no paintings.

Neal shivered full bodied, suddenly very cold as he stared at the blank, white, pristine walls.

There were no Picassos, no Renoirs, no Warhols, no Degas …

There was no art.

Neal truly was in Hell.

0o0o0o0o0

Peter was on his third trip around the hospital perimeter, mired in his thoughts, when his phone started to buzz. He had to unclench his balled up fists in order to pull the damn thing out of his pocket and when he answered, it was in a sharp and biting tone.

"What?" He barked.

"Suit -" Mozzie's voice was tense and the mere fact that the little guy would call him at all made the hair on his arms stand on end. He would only do such a thing if it had to do with Neal and it was never because the news was good.

"What's happened?"

"You better get back."

Mozzie hung up as Peter reversed his direction and headed for the hospital entrance once again.

He was back in Neal's room three minutes later, gulping at the sight of a doctor relaying clipped orders to the nurses with an air of restrained urgency. Peter kept back, not wanting to interfere. He could just make out Neal's pale face between the three women treating him. His hair was matted down with sweat, but he trembled all over as if shivering in an arctic wind. More worrying, Neal's nasal cannula had been replaced with an oxygen mask that covered half of his face, but still showed his bluing lips.

The nurses worked to turn Neal on his side carefully, slipping a kind of plastic sheeting underneath him. Once they had it secure beneath him, one nurse turned on a pump and the sheet began to inflate slightly.

Peter grabbed Mozzie by the arm and pulled him out the door to give doctor and nurses some space and to get a report on what had happened.

"What's going on? Neal was doing okay when I left."

"Yeah, but you left over two hours ago. A lot can happen in that time."

 _Two hours?_

Had he really been gone that long?

"His fever spiked and they're trying to get his temp down with the cooling blankets and such."

Mozzie gazed into the room, watching with an unmasked expression of worry.

"Did you read his chart?" Peter asked without chastisement. He wouldn't blame Mozzie if he had lifted the chart behind the doctors back. Though the little guy was many times excessively eccentric, Peter knew he always had Neal's back and he trusted him to explain things honestly when it came to Neal's well being.

Mozzie nodded, "Neal's white cell count is through the roof. He's going into septic shock and it's causing his liver and kidney functions to plummet. His lungs are filling with fluid too and he's not getting enough oxygen so they're talking about putting him on a vent."

Just as Mozzie predicted, Peter turned his head and watched the doctor remove the oxygen mask and tilt Neal's head back before deftly slipping a tube down his throat.

Mozzie swallowed hard and even behind the thick lenses of his glasses Peter could see his eyes welling up.

0o0o0o0

Neal had been on the vent for the past two days while the doctors pumped mega doses of antibiotics, and steroids, and anti-inflammatories, and immune boosting drugs and God only knows what else into his friend. He was nearly drowned in chemicals and medicines, but he still wasn't getting any better.

Mozzie had disappeared, but Peter knew he hadn't gone far. He could tell that he just couldn't handle seeing Neal like he was now, immobile with a tube breathing for him and other machines keeping his body alive. It wasn't Neal in that bed, it was his shade maybe, but not Neal … not the vibrant man he knew.

Even so, Peter tried being at the hospital as long as he could, even though El was adamant that he come home every night and at least eat dinner and sleep.

But even when he was at the hospital, he wasn't sure what to do. Mostly he sat next to Neal's bed, reading old magazines over and over again, or doing crossword puzzles out of the paper. He was pretty much a useless waste of space, but he just couldn't stand the thought of Neal being alone, whether he was aware of it or not.

He also wanted to be there to keep his friend safe. Besides his own presence during the day, Jones, Diana, and several more agents from not only White Collar, but from the entire New York branch had volunteered to take turns standing guard.

Peter could usually stand being in Neal's room for about 30 minutes before he would get antsy and have to get out of the stifling space. The quiet was too consuming and Peter's mind often drifted to uncomfortable thoughts about Mozzie's claim that Neal tried to fake his death.

He still couldn't really process that. Would Neal really do that to his friends? To him? He just wished he could talk to the man, see his reaction to being confronted with it.

Getting coffee was the usual excuse for leaving and he had used it for the third time that morning when he overheard the quiet conversation the two nurses were having between themselves about Neal. He had been passing the nurses station on his way to the coffee machine when he heard Neal's name. He stopped to listen, staying out of sight against the wall.

"Dr. Wright wants Mr. Caffrey set up for another round of dialysis. Can you handle it, Meg? My dinner break was supposed to be two hours ago and my stomach feels like it's trying to eat itself I'm so hungry."

"Sure." The other nurse replied flatly, "Not that it's doing any good. Poor guy's circling the drain, Liz."

"Well, I hope you're wrong." Liz replied. "He still has a chance."

"Liz, you gotta quit getting personally attached to these patients. I know you're new, but you gotta realize that the people we see here in ICU are the sickest of the sick. A lot of them won't make it. And once they start going downhill like him ..."

Peter quietly retreated. He didn't want to hear any more.

The line kept repeating itself over and over again in his head.

Other phrases came and joined along in the parade of hopelessness.

 _Circling the drain …_

 _Going downhill …_

 _Slipping away ..._

 _Dying …_

Neal was dying.

He had to admit it.

There was still so much he hadn't resolved with his friend though. It wasn't fair. He was supposed to have more time. He was supposed to tell Neal that he was sorry for all the crap that had come between them lately, for not trusting him … for making him think that the only way out was to fake his death.

He was supposed to be able to argue with Neal about this, yell at him for daring to do such a reckless thing, and for not trusting that Peter would protect him.

On numb legs, Peter walked back to Neal's room and sat heavily. He watched the machine pump air into his lungs in a rhythmic cadence. Without thinking about it and without consciously realizing that he had never done this before, Peter took Neal's hand and squeezed.

Peter wasn't one to hold one-sided conversations with people in comas and he had felt too self-conscious to do this before, but he felt almost compelled to do this now that he may not have much time left. Maybe Neal was still in there somewhere and maybe he wasn't, but Peter had to get some things off his chest.

"C'mon, Neal," the words escaped from his closing throat, "That's enough. You have to wake up now, I've got so goddamned much to talk to you about …"

And talk he did. All night long.

.

Part III coming soon ...


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this, commented, favorited, or followed. I know I'm really late to the White Collar party having gotten into it after the show is already concluded, but I have really enjoyed writing this and I hope you like this last part._

 _Thanks for reading!_

 **Part III: How Can You Say I Go About Things the Wrong Way?**

Neal wasn't sure how exactly he got to the office from the museum, but that was where he had ended up. More specifically, he found himself in Peter's office, sitting in his usual spot at the desk directly across from Peter's empty chair.

He stared at the empty seat as if Peter would materialize at any second. He even tried putting his feet up on the desk because that usually worked to make Peter appear out of nowhere and yell at him for getting shoe prints on its surface.

It didn't work.

Peter was gone and he couldn't bring him back.

He had no one to yell at him now. No one to tell him that if he didn't shape up, he'd wind up back in prison, no one to keep him from crossing any lines and no one to look up to. Peter was everything Neal was not, but dammit if he hadn't filled a hole in his life that Neal had never known had existed. No one else had tried to show Neal the kind of man he should be, but Peter and yet he was always disappointing the guy. And Neal had tried … he really did want to live up to Peter's ideals of loyalty and sacrifice, but the truth was, Neal always screwed it up.

It was hubris that did it every time. His unshakable belief that he was always in control at all times and that he somehow was smarter, faster, and more clever than everyone else that was his downfall. He had been deluding himself for years however, that the lying, the stealing, the scheming, and the conning was all okay so long as no one was physically hurt. Even after he made his deal with Peter and he did those things for something he believed was a good cause, such as selling his soul to Curtis Hagen in order to get Peter out of jail, or even faking his own death to protect the people he cared about, it always came back to bite him in the ass and he usually ended up hurting the people he wanted to protect the most anyway.

And perhaps he a terrible person because he plotted his own demise as well, knowing full well that those he left behind would be heartbroken. He hadn't thought so while planning the whole thing out, thinking that it was far better for his friends to suffer hurt feelings than physical harm. Even though he knew full well that his friends would mourn him, he did it anyway.

But what if he'd been wrong?

He hadn't even thought to try a different way, one that might not have left his friends reeling in the aftermath. He had been too full of pride to admit to Peter that he had been scared shitless of the Panthers and that he was in way too far over his head. Perhaps there could have been a way to keep his friends safe without his feigned demise, but he had shut his friends out and decided to go it alone.

And now he was going to be alone forever.

It was a fitting punishment. It seemed as though Neal had pretty much asked for this hell.

That had to be why he was there, because without a soul around, he could cause no one any more pain. Or, maybe he was here in order to face the kind of man he truly was by existing for all eternity with only the memories of friendships he had squandered and people he had taken advantage of. He wasn't worthy of being in their presence because Neal had never truly acknowledged how damaging his actions had been to the feelings of those he cared about when he was alive.

God … he didn't want to be alone.

But he would have been anyway. Even if he hadn't died for real, he would have left his friends behind, never to see them again.

"I'm sorry -" Neal spoke aloud to Peter's desk chair as if its owner was sitting in it, expecting the same old excuses to come floating off of Neal's silvery tongue. He felt his throat constrict with remorse and guilt and he could speak no more as tears began to drip from his face and splash onto the desktop. He'd give anything to see Peter's face again, even if it was full of disappointment and accusation - at least he'd know there would be a chance of forgiveness.

It was too late to be redeemed and forgiven. He'd get no absolution.

His head dropped to the table and he buried it under his arms, as he let go and sobbed.

He had made his bed …

Neal cried until he had no more left in him to get out and he was left exhausted and bereft, empty of everything. He must have laid there for hours, too tired to move, his head too heavy to lift and his limbs too numb from immobility.

He was drifting in and out of sleep when he first started to hear it.

He was pretty sure he was imagining whatever it was making that noise and he tried to ignore it. He was just so damned tired and sleep sounded very inviting. He could just float away for a while ...

But then his brain smacked him with him with the fact that it was the first sound he had heard that hadn't actually be caused by him and he startled awake.

He pushed his head up and he tried to listen harder. It was so faint that he couldn't make out what it was. He pushed himself away from the desk and stood, swiveling his head in search of the sound's origin.

It sounded like it was coming from outside Peter's office so he went for the door and pulled it open. Immediately he gasped, seeing that the fog that once been outside was now up to the door and so thick that it was almost opaque.

Neal stepped back in alarm and slammed the door, his heart thumping a staccato rhythm in his chest.

Though it was silly to admit to himself that he was afraid of some fog, he was. He was petrified by it. Explaining his fear would never be possible, but it was as if the fog was a living thing, following him everywhere, shrinking his world bit by bit like it was coming for him, looking to swallow him whole like Jonah's whale. He could still hear the noise drifting in through the door, but he was hesitant to open it again. It was just fog, he tried to tell himself, but that did little to quell his fear. It could be a trap for all he knew. The sound could just be something to draw him into the fog and who knew what would happen to him in that stuff. What if he stepped into the stuff and ... poof! ... he disappeared?

Neal wanted to know what the sound was, it might lead him to a way out, but the fear held him back.

The noise was getting a little louder and even through the closed door, Neal could recognize it as a voice.

A man's voice!

Neal lost all fear and he threw the door open.

Someone was out there! He wasn't alone!

He could see nothing beyond the threshold, but the voice was much clearer and to his astonishment and almost overwhelming relief, he recognized the voice. It was almost too impossible to hope it was him, but it had to be Peter. He must have found him. He shouldn't have doubted. Peter always found him.

"Peter!" He yelled into the fog, "I'm here!"

Neal stilled and strained to listen for a reply, some acknowledgement that he had been heard. What he heard instead was Peter's was droning on like he was conducting some sort of lecture. He couldn't make out what his partner was saying, it was too muffled. He would have to get closer if he was to find Peter.

Doing that meant going into the fog, and again, he was afraid. He didn't know what was in there, or what would happen to him if he went into it, but he couldn't stay in that room any longer. Even if this was some sort of cosmic trick being played on him, he didn't care anymore. If he vanished into the fog, then so be it. It was better than being stuck in limbo forever.

Neal braced himself and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and holding it as he stepped across the threshold and into the fog.

When he didn't vanish into a cloud of vapor, Neal released his breath and sighed in relief. Well, at least the fog wasn't dangerous, even if it was still creepy as hell.

He opened his eyes and tried to look about, but the fog was much too thick for his sight to penetrate. Instead of being pitch black, it was pitch white, but just as blinding. He stood still and tried to listen, hoping to narrow in on Peter's voice and let him guide him.

He picked up on his friends voice once again again and smiled. Five years ago, he never would have thought it could give him such a sense of relief to hear an FBI agents voice, especially the one who had put him in jail, but he didn't think he had ever heard anything so welcome before.

He turned his body towards the sound and took a few hesitant steps.

Now that was closer, Neal was starting to pick out distinct words, but not yet whole sentences. He took a few more steps.

Peter's words were now clear as a bell, but he still couldn't see him

" _… you never did listen, but I guess I wasn't listening either."_

"Peter?" Neal called out. Peter kept rambling on like he hadn't heard him.

 _" … I know I have been pushing you away. I thought it was what was best not just for me, but for you too. I wanted you to succeed after you were released from the FBI, but somehow I felt like I had to push you out of the nest to do it…"_

"Peter, C'mon … I'm right here. Where are you?" Neal shouted this time.

Again, Peter kept talking.

 _"… I just wish you had trusted me enough to let me in, Neal."_

Hearing his name, Neal paused. Was Peter talking to him? If he was, why didn't he answer? He stopped and listened.

 _" ... You were afraid and I should have seen it. I was too caught up in being ASAC, the Panthers, and El, and the baby … and I guess I just didn't see what was going on, what you were planning …"_

 _"But I tell you, Neal. If I had known … I would have stopped you."_

Peter's voice choked and Neal was dumbstruck. Was Peter crying?

 _"I would have protected you. It wasn't your job to keep us all safe. You didn't have to do this … there would have been another way and we could have found it together."_

Damn .. Peter really was crying and now Neal was swallowing hard just to keep his own throat from tightening. Unfortunately, he wasn't succeeding.

 _"'Cause we're a pretty good team, don't you think? When we put our heads together there isn't anything we can't do. And I promise you … I promise that we'll all be okay. You can come back now. You just have to wake up, you hear me? "_

Wake up?

Neal wasn't dead? Had he been caught in some sort of dream this whole time?

"I don't know how." Neal replied, whispering.

 _"Just give me sign you're still in there, buddy. That's all you need to do right now."_

Neal tried to concentrate on waking himself up, but he was already awake, so how could he? He didn't have a clue and he was growing more frustrated by the second.

He wanted to grab his hair and scream, "I can't, Peter. How do I do it? Tell me what I need to do!"

 _"Squeeze my hand if you can … anything, Neal. Please. C'mon ..."_

Neal heard the desperate tone in Peter's voice and found it matched his own. He squeezed his own hands, but couldn't tell if it made a difference. Would Peter feel something that was only happening in Neal's head?

And then it was quiet.

Peter had stopped talking and Neal was alone in the fog and he could see nothing but white.

"Peter?"

Silence.

"N-n-n-n-no, Peter, please. Don't stop. Don't leave me here alone! I can't do this, please! Come back! I'll do whatever you want. Please, please, just come back … please …"

Neal felt the tears he had been holding back break free and slide down his face.

He was alone. The fog everywhere, choking him.

Until suddenly felt a hand squeeze his fingers.

 _"Neal?"_

0o0o0o0

Peter was the only one to see it; the single tear that rolled silently down Neal's otherwise slack face.

"Neal?"

He grabbed Neal's hand again and squeezed, almost laughing out loud with pure relief when he felt weak fingers tighten around his own.

"That's it, buddy." Peter smiled through the tears, "Now, that's how you make a comeback."

0o0o0o0o0o0

Waking up wasn't easy for Neal and it didn't happen like it did in the movies. It took days. And all the while his body was still fighting the infection, so even when he was semi-aware of his world, he was in pain and distress. It was hard to watch, but Peter was grateful for each lower temp reading, each encouraging CT scan, each lower white cell count, and each day Neal was breathing on his own after the tube was removed.

By week two, Peter was back at work after having been cleared by OPR, and his visits to Neal were only after office hours, but he made sure his friend was never alone. His friends all too turns sitting with him and someone was always in the room with him. Usually it was Mozzie, June, and El during the day and either himself, Diana or Jones at night.

Only he and the little guy knew what Neal had been planning the day he'd been shot, and neither of them had actually confronted Neal about it, but it felt like the elephant in the room. But bigger than even that was the clear danger the Pink Panthers still posed to Neal. Mozzie had word from his contacts that Neal had a price on his head and though Peter had guards in place at all time outside his room, he felt it was only a matter of time before the Panthers made their move. Something would need to be done soon to keep Neal safe for good.

It was Peter's night to be on watch and as he stepped into the room and he found Neal was awake, but turned slightly on his side, staring out the window silently. Neal had been sleeping a lot as his body tried to recover, but as he got better and he was awake more often, he became more withdrawn each day. He was too quiet and too unlike his friend for Peter to ignore, so maybe tonight would be a good time to talk about 'the plan' that he and Mozzie had been discussing the last few days.

"Hey, Neal." Peter spoke as he took the chair next to the bed and sat, "How're you feeling?"

Neal just grunted a little, but otherwise didn't move or acknowledge Peter, his eyes remained fixated in the world outside, his head turned from Peter.

The doctors had warned him that depression was common in people recovering from serious injuries, but this was so far out of Peter's depth that he was at a loss. He didn't do touchy-feely stuff very well and he didn't know how to get through.

"I hear the doctors want to release you to a rehab hospital soon. How's that sound? You ready to get out of here?"

"Still a hospital." Neal mumbled in reply, never turning his head. "Still going to be shitting in a bag."

Peter sighed. This was going to be harder than he thought, "I know, but it's only for a couple of weeks. They'll get you back on your feet. "

Neal was silent for several moments before he spoke again.

"And then what? Neal asked.

"And then … you get on with your life."

Neal snorted, "Right … my life. Working for the FBI until hell freezes over? I upheld my end of the bargain, but we both know your bosses are terrible at keeping their word."

Peter shook his head. "Not this time," He smiled, "The Marshalls have already been informed of your commutation. Your contract is good. You're a free man, Neal."

"Sure, I am." Neal scoffed, "Until someone higher up the food chain decides that I'm too valuable an asset to let go and 'discovers' new evidence of a crime a committed ten years ago."

Again, Neal was silent and Peter was tired of looking at the back of Neal's head, so he got up and pulled his chair around to other side of the bed, blocking Neal's view of the window.

"You're more than just an asset, Neal."

Neal gave him a bit of a stink eye.

Peter heaved a sigh, "Look, Mozzie and I have been talking -"

"About me behind my back, yeah I know. I've been sick, not deaf." Peter mentally kicked himself for talking to Mozzie at all while anywhere in earshot of Neal even when he appeared deeply asleep.

Neal closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh, "I guess this is the part where you tell me that it's all going to be okay and there's nothing to worry about, but we both know that's not true. I heard you, there's a price on my head …"

"If it makes you feel better, it's for nearly 2 mil, even Carlos 'The Jackal's' wasn't that much."

" I hope you're not equating me to a terrorist, Peter." That produced a quick smile on Neal's face and Peter was warmed to see it, but it was gone in an instant. "I'm a danger to you, Peter. You should have just let me-"

"What, die?" Peter cut him off angrily, "Or maybe you could have just faked your death and let all of us who care about you think you were dead."

Neal looked up a Peter, stricken, then turned his head away, his face flushed red with shame.

Peter immediately felt guilty for bringing it up, "I get why you wanted to do it. I do. But it still hurts … to think that you felt so alone in this that you wouldn't ask for help."

"I've always been good at solving my own problems." Neal said quietly, his gaze moving from his blanket to the window, avoiding Peter's eyes.

"Trust me, I know, I chased you for too many years to not know that, but I thought that by now, you would remember that we are a team, Neal. You and me. We always work better together."

Peter could almost see Neal's carefully constructed mask slipping, too tired and weak was he to keep the fear and uncertainty that were hiding under the surface from coming to light, "That's just it. I -" Neal's eyes welled, and he choked on his words, "I can't let you get hurt because of me. I can't let Elizabeth become a widow or your kid grow up without a dad … God, Peter … you're gonna be a dad. I'm just me … I don't have a family that needs me like that. It was a pretty easy choice to make. You might miss me for a while, but you'd get over it, but what would happen to them if something happened to you? I could never live with that."

"I told you already that I understand why you did it, but what we need to do now is decide how we are going to keep you and everyone else safe."

"So help me, if you say you'll put me in WitSec, I'll punch you in the mouth, gunshot wound or not." Neal retorted.

Peter closed his eyes and shook his head, a small smirk playing on his face. It was good to see a little of Neal's old, feisty self coming back.

"What? You have a better plan?" Neal asked, looking skeptical.

Peter smiled, "Yes ... your plan. That's what Mozzie and I have been discussing. It was actually a pretty damned good one."

Neal's brows furrowed as he put it together, "You mean you want to kill me off?"

"Yeah."

Neal's eyebrows arched up, disbelieving, "And you're okay with this?"

"Of course not," Peter responded honestly, "but there really isn't a better way. Neal Caffrey has to die, but this time we'll do it right."

Neal grinned as Peter laid out the plan.

0o0o0o0

According to his death certificate, At 9:23 am, November 30, 2014, Neal Caffrey succumbed to a massive infection caused by a gunshot wound he had received three weeks earlier.

His body was covered with a white sheet and pushed on a gurney down to the hospital morgue where the resident pathologist, the same one Neal had paid off a month earlier, signed off on his death certificate. Having no immediate family, Special Agent Peter Burke claimed the body as his legal next of kin and arranged for a hearse to transport his casket to the airport where his landlady, terribly grieved by the young man's passing, had paid for a charter jet to transport his body to France. He was to be interred in a Paris cemetery according to the terms of his will provided by his lawyer, Dante Havisham, who was already in France awaiting the arrival of the body.

As the hearse stopped on the tarmac, Peter exited the vehicle and followed the driver to the rear, solemnly helping to unload the casket and place it on a dolley. He walked alongside his former partner as the driver carefully pushed the casket up to the stairs. He then took the handle at the foot of the casket while the driver took the front and they lifted it up together. It was heavy work, but the two men managed to get the coffin up the stairs and into the private jet.

They lowered the casket softly to the floor.

Peter blew out a breath, wiping his brow, "Thanks, Jones."

"No problem, Peter." Jones motioned towards the casket, "I guess you'll want a few minutes."

Peter nodded gratefully.

"I'll wait for you in the hearse." Jones walked to the door then paused, "See ya around, Neal." he said in a loud voice before he exited the plane.

Peter smirked and knelt beside the casket, making quick work of the latches and opening it up, looking down at the man inside.

The occupant opened his eyes and grabbed at the oxygen mask covering face, giving his friend above him a grateful smile.

"Finally. Took you long enough. Did I really need to ride in the coffin? You know I don't do well in tight spaces."

"We had to make it look authentic, didn't we? Besides, didn't you once spend ten hours in the air ducts of the Louvre?"

"Allegedly," Neal countered.

Neal grumbled and raised a hand for help out of the casket. Still quite weak and in pain, it took some careful maneuvering to lever Neal up and out. He clung to Peter as he helped him across the plane and lowered him, shaking and sweaty into one of the opulent, leather seats.

Neal closed his eyes and breathed heavily, his head spinning a little from the exertion.

"You gonna be okay?" Peter asked as he pulled out a bag from the casket that contained all of the drugs and medical supplies Neal would need for the flight. He offered Neal a vicodin from one of the orange bottles and Neal took it without complaint. Sitting in a plane for the next seven hours was not something he was looking forward to, but thanks to June, whom he knew he could never repay for her constant kindness, he would be travelling in style and in a seat that could fully recline, taking some of the pressure off his healing body.

He nodded, "Yeah, I'll be fine. I promise." Adding with a wicked grin, "Unless the plane crashes…"

Peter smirked, and Neal smiled patented con smile #28, the one that said, 'I'm doing great," while his insides flipped and flopped with uncertainty. Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a number of documents.

"Birth certificate, passport, and everything for a Mr. Nathan Cole, American expat from Chicago. Mozzie called not too long ago and is waiting for you in Paris to help you get settled at the rehab clinic. A few weeks there and you should be on your feet again and doing … well, whatever you want to do. So long as it's legal, of course."

"Of course." Neal grinned with a wink.

"Anyway … " Peter sighed, hesitant and awkward.

Neither of them was looking forward to this next part.

Neal's eyes misted, "Yeah … I guess this is it."

"It's not forever, Neal." Peter insisted emphatically, "We _will_ take these sons of bitch down and bring you home again. I promise you that. In the meantime, you stay safe and as far from trouble as you can. Got it?"

"Geez, one would think that you're still my handler." Neal kidded, but he still felt strange without the old familiar feel of the tracking anklet strapped to his leg and to be honest, he was a little weirded out facing the world without it.

"No, I'm not your handler anymore, but I am your best friend, and since you're a free man now, you had better stay that way."

Peter stood there awkwardly for a moment until Neal lifted his arms and beckoned, "C'mon, bring it in."

Peter bent down and embraced Neal and if he held on a little tighter and a little longer than was necessarily appropriate for two straight men, neither one really cared. With Neal being 'dead' now, they could not afford any contact from then on. They had no idea when or if they would ever see each other again so they both wanted to savor the moment. Eventually though, they pulled apart, a wet glimmer in both of their eyes.

"Bye, Peter." Neal spoke, hoarsely.

Peter nodded with a tight swallow, "Bye for now, Neal."

With that, Peter turned his head, hiding his reddening eyes as he deplaned and the engine roared to life. In moments, a stewardess closed the door and the plane began to taxi. Neal looked out the window and watched the world whiz by and shrink away as he flew into the clouds.

 **EPILOGUE**

 _ **One year later**_

Thanksgiving was Peter's favorite holiday.

Sure, Christmas was great, but it was such a production every year with the parties, and the gifts, and the decorations. It was a little too much for Peter's taste.

Just give him a day off, the smell of roasting turkey in the oven, a game on t.v. and an enormous home-cooked meal and he was in pure bliss.

It didn't get any better than this he decided, twisting the top off his favorite beer and plopping down on the couch with a contented sigh. El was busy in the kitchen and refused to let him help while the baby went down for what he hoped would be a long nap only ten minutes ago.

And to top it all off, only two days ago, the top boss of the Pink Panthers organization was finally arrested by Interpol in Spain. It had taken many long hours over many long months with sleepless nights working with Interpol and many other international police agencies across time zones, but the task force he helped create had captured all but the very head of the syndicate, Rene Aubin. That was, until Friday when they finally caught a break thanks to an anonymous tip. Aubin was literally caught with his pants down as a SWAT team raided his home outside Barcelona as he was sitting on the toilet 'reading' Penthouse Magazine.

Yeah … life was good.

And not five minutes later, it got even better.

There was a knock on the door, stirring Peter out of his contented fog. He grunted as he pried himself from the couch, a little annoyed that his quiet day was suddenly interrupted. They weren't expecting guests since both he and El had decided that their little family needed the holiday alone after all of the extra hours Peter had been pulling lately.

He pulled open the door to find nobody there. He looked side to side to see who had knocked, but the sidewalks were empty. He then looked down and found a bottle sitting in the middle of his welcome mat, a small tag hanging from the neck.

He bent down and picked it up, turning it over in his hand. It was a French brand of Cabernet Sauvignon he had never heard of before called 'Chateau de Phenix'. He was certain this was no table wine and it must have cost a pretty penny given its finely crafted label.

He reached for the tag hanging from the neck and turned it over. Written across it in perfect, swirling, yet familiar penmanship was one word:

 _Firebird._

Peter's heart leapt and he grinned from ear to ear. He knew immediately who this was from as they had chosen this code word a year ago to signal when it was safe for the 'firebird' to emerge from the ashes.

Though the man who sent it was absent still, Peter was overjoyed. It meant he might see his best friend again someday soon.

He was just about to call out to El and show him his find when she gave a yelp from the kitchen. Ever on the alert to danger, Peter quickly turned and ran towards the kitchen, ready to tackle anything that dared to frighten his wife.

He plowed through the door and stopped short, dumbfounded.

His wife stood in the middle of the kitchen, her arms wrapped around a dark-haired, well-dressed man, holding him tight with tears trickling down her face.

Peter's heart felt like bursting.

He gasped audibly and El let him go, smiling brightly as she turned to her husband, "Look who showed up just in time for dinner."

"Jesus … Neal."

Neal was smiling brilliantly as he crossed the room towards a stunned Peter and grabbed his shoulders with both hands. Peter snapped out of his surprised fugue and found his arms wrapping around his friend, hugging him tight to his chest.

They held each other for a few moments until Neal patted Peter's back and they broke apart. Peter held Neal out at arm's length and evaluated his friend, taking him in fully. He looked healthy and whole unlike the last time he saw him. But for a fresh cut over his right eye and a fading bruise on his left cheek, he wold think that Neal was 100% recovered from his gunshot wound..

Peter scowled at his injuries. "What the hell happened, Neal?"

"Oh … those are nothing. But FYI, anonymous tips can be a little hazardous to your health."

"That was you?" Peter asked, "You sent in the tip. You tracked down Aubin?"

Neal just shrugged.

Peter shook his head, "What were you thinking … you were supposed to be laying low and NOT getting into trouble. You could have been killed."

"Ah, but see, I was already dead …" Neal pointed out a little pleased with himself as he smiled charmingly adding, "and maybe just a little bored."

Peter scowled, but read behind Neal's smile. He hadn't been bored … he'd been lonely and missing home and had risked his life to help bring down the Panthers yet again. He wanted in from the cold and to come home. And now, here he was in Peter's kitchen.

Neal certainly was skilled at getting what he wanted.

"You're going to have to tell me how you did it. We had a task force with over 100 agents scouring Europe for the guy."

Neal beamed, "I promise to hold nothing back, but first, I just got off a really long flight and I'm standing in a kitchen that smells like heaven."

"You must be starving." El gasped, practically herding Neal and Peter into the dining room where she had already begun setting food out. Over a feast of turkey, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole and Neal's delicious wine, they talked and laughed as though the last year apart had never happened until a wailing sound from upstairs interrupted only few minutes into the main course.

Neal looked like his face would split apart, he was smiling so broadly, "Is that who I think it is?"

"It is." Peter nodded proudly, "You want to meet him?"

"You have to ask?" Neal was already on his feet and following the sounds of crying. Peter signaled to El that he'd get the baby from his crib and met Neal in his son's room. Neal had already picked his son up and held him gently. He wasn't exactly a natural with the baby, but his delighted face showed just how much he already loved the boy.

To Peter's surprise, his normally stranger-shy son hushed in Neal's arms and hiccuped, checking him out with open curiosity.

"Hey, buddy. I'm your uncle Neal. It so nice to finally see you." Neal turned to Peter, smiling, a little misty around the eyes, "He's perfect, Peter."

Peter couldn't keep his pride from bursting forth, "He's the best thing that's ever happened to us."

"I don't even know his name." Neal said, letting the baby play with his tie. He grinned mischievously, "Let me guess … it's Neal, right?"

"Only if you'd been dead for real," Peter scoffed and snorted,"His name is Eddy, after El's grandfather." He watched his friend hold his son and he felt nothing but warmth spread over him. Peter couldn't help but think about how close he actually came to losing Neal for good and how this moment might not be happening if things hadn't worked out as they had. He wondered if he really would have named his son after Neal if the unthinkable had occured.

He probably would have.

 **The End**


End file.
